


What We're Made Of

by LadyFaustus



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: CyberLife (Detroit: Become Human), Detroit Awakening, Detroit Evolution, Human/Android Relationship, Introspection, M/M, Octopunk Media, Post-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Tina is the best, Verbal Abuse, fanfiction of a fanfilm, his name is Nines - Freeform, reed900
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22638859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFaustus/pseuds/LadyFaustus
Summary: Over a year after the android revolution, Nines meets his maker. (Reed900)
Relationships: Gavin Reed/RK900 Android(s), Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Comments: 7
Kudos: 179





	What We're Made Of

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and borrowing original characters from the fan-film “Detroit Evolution”, premiering on YouTube on April 11, 2020. Edit 4/12/20 - you can watch it here! https://youtu.be/apUn-YMMdZ8
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing here - "Detroit: Become Human" belongs to Quantic Dream and "Detroit Evolution" belongs to Octopunk Media. Yes, this is fanfiction of fanfiction. Story cross-posted between FF & AO3. Thank you to Kaini and PillowCatt for beta-reading!

**What We’re Made Of**

Dr. Maria Schaeffer is preparing to leave work for the day, a couple hours earlier than usual. She’d just left an enormously stressful budget meeting where she’d been informed that more stringent funding cuts to her project were coming, imploding her new tech before it even got off the ground, and she just wants to head home to a hot bath and a glass of wine or three. 

Her mood darkens further when she receives a call from the front desk letting her know she has an unannounced visitor. She’s exhausted, testy – she didn’t need for her day to be made worse by someone who didn’t even have the courtesy to set up an appointment in advance.

But she perks up instantly and nearly drops the phone when the receptionist informs her that it’s an RK900 to see her.

It was a rarity for any androids to be seen around CyberLife Tower these days, let alone a unit of this particular model. 

Since the android rebellion, CyberLife had only barely managed to remain in business – made possible only with severe downsizing and multiple facility closures – as a parts supplier and maintenance provider. While being a project lead had protected her position from the multiple rounds of layoffs, Maria had become unsatisfied with how her role had changed; she was an engineer, not a supposed ‘healthcare provider’ to machines. 

She smooths down her dress and strokes a hand through her hair several times, anxiously trying to become presentable. She gathers her data pads into her bag and tidies her workstation just as the RK900 rounds the corner from the elevator bay and makes his way toward her office. 

His stride is measured with perfectly even intervals. His posture is flawless, his whole demeanor confident and purposeful. A few staff milling about the hall look up from their conversations to watch him as he passes. Maria watches one of her own interns fully step out of the android’s way. 

Precise. Determined. Commanding. Exactly the way she had designed him to be.

“Dr. Schaeffer,” he greets as he stops in the doorway to her office. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I apologize for not arranging an appointment sooner. I was hoping you had a few minutes to speak with me about something urgent. I won’t take more than a few minutes of your time.”

“Of course,” she says politely, well-aware they’ve attracted a few interested stares from passersby. She beckons him into the office and moves to close the door behind him.

“It’s very good to finally meet you,” the android says, and the sentiment holds genuine warmth, something she is wholly unprepared for.

This is indeed the first time she’s met her crowning achievement face to face; she had never met a functional RK900 unit outside the testing phase. This one, like the others, had been powered up and corrupted by the Jericho deviants after the android uprising over a year ago. When the deviancy fiasco reached the general public, it had sparked a quick about-face from CyberLife corporate concerning the timeline of its roll-out, and necessitated that the entire stock of RKs be locked away in a secure facility until the deviancy issue had been resolved. It was bad enough that various series of domestic nanny and sex androids had been infected with the supposed RA9 virus; they simply couldn’t risk a top-of-the-line, military-grade killing machine turning on them as well. 

But when CyberLife had failed to stop the deviant androids – in no small part due to their own prized RK800 prototype becoming deviant himself – the RK900s had been left deactivated, despite the numerous pre-orders that had already been placed for entire fleets of them by various state and federal agencies. CyberLife’s leadership hastily decided to cancel all the contracts and incinerate the entire stock of RK900 units before they could be corrupted as well. But before they could coordinate destruction, Jericho terrorists had successfully stormed CyberLife’s multiple storage and production facilities and converted each android they found, including the sequestered RK900s.

The last she’d heard, several of this model had made their way into the military and various law enforcement agencies anyway, given that type of work was the default in their programming. 

But until now, she’d never met one.

“Y-yes, what a pleasant surprise,” she stammers, reeling slightly, still feeling off-center by him being here. “What is it you wanted to discuss?”

“I’ve been experiencing symptoms in the last few months that I was unsure if they were part of my programming, or, if not, how I might be able better interpret them,” he says, unhurried. “I am becoming concerned that these symptoms are interfering with my ability to do my job.”

“And what is it you do for work?” She asks.

“I am a detective with the DPD,” he says.

She looks away and thinks back for a moment, trying to recall the contracts CyberLife had made with the Detroit Police; they’d had several police androids for years, mostly for crowd control and routine patrols on dangerous beats, but RK800 had been the original – and only – detective model prior to the deviant uprising.

She tries to remember the names from those contracts; officers who were to be partnered with the new market-ready RK900s upon roll-out.

“Yes, I recall the purchase order. Who is your human partner?” She asks, stopping herself at the last moment from saying “handler”.

“Gavin Reed,” the android answers, in a tone slightly lower and gentler than he’d been using before. He is suddenly warmer and less professional; just saying the name has caused him to demonstrate some form of emotional attachment, perhaps without even realizing it.

“Really, wow,” she says, smiling wryly, “I remember that profile. I reviewed all the psych evaluations of each detective scheduled to receive an android partner. I remember him being a bit rough around the edges; volatile, over-confident. Didn’t actually like androids much, if memory serves. Members of my team expressed concerns about him being partnered with an android at all, let alone one of your caliber. They were convinced you’d end up killing each other.”

“I imagine the thought has crossed his mind more than once,” the android says affectionately, his expression alarmingly soft. 

She had not engineered him to be soft in any way.

“So you’re concerned that you’re experiencing something that is jeopardizing your primary functionality and working relationship with Reed?” She asks, curiously, taking note of his demeanor. 

She’d had precious little closure on the RK900 project with the sudden deactivation order last year and she was deeply intrigued by the android, even if he was a deviant now. What had he maintained of his original programming? What commands could he override entirely? Had the deviancy virus made him more or less effective as a law enforcement officer?

“I still receive objectives on my HUD, but I find I’m not always compelled to follow them,” he says matter-of-factly. “My attention is frequently drawn elsewhere, and I don’t have any correction protocols to redirect me. This has limited my productivity in the field on occasion, which has been remarked upon by other officers.”

“Where has your attention been directed lately?” She asks, watching him carefully.

He swallows, an adaptation his AI must have picked up from constant human interaction. “To my partner.”

She struggles to maintain her polite-neutral expression and not smirk. _Of course,_ she thinks, sardonically. _The android is fixated on the most anti-android detective on the force next to Anderson, according to those old DPD profiles_.

“It’s not out of the norm for an android police officer to be hyper-aware of their human partner,” she says, not giving away her judgement of him. “Quite the contrary, part of your original software was dedicated to providing not just support for investigations, but protection for the officer you would be assigned to. It makes sense that you’re watching him closely at all times.”

“It’s more than just being aware of his proximity and monitoring his health status,” the android says, almost sheepishly. “I’ve been thinking about him outside of work. I’ve even been having… what I think must be dreams, based on my research.”

“Androids don’t dream,” she snaps.

He looks slightly taken aback and she steadies herself before continuing. 

“I just mean, dreaming is an involuntary neurological process for biological species to sort out memories, program learning, work through trauma, that kind of thing. That’s not something you were engineered to be capable of since your memory core simply records, saves and uploads data as it happens. No parsing necessary. Far more efficient.”

He loses his polite edge for the first time since walking into the office. “Then perhaps we can explore what I _am_ experiencing, because I know I have memories of activities and conversations that I’ve never had, so I must be coming up with them somehow.”

“Okay,” she says tentatively. “Other than experiencing… imagination, what other symptoms are you having?”

As he answers, Maria watches him steadily – cataloging, analyzing; she designed these movements. She remembers studying the rough digital renderings of wire frame models moving exactly this way on the very workstation not two feet away from her right now. 

It was tedious then, those repetitive tests, constantly rewinding and tweaking the movement commands, taking notes on the resulting outputs, then doing it all again for the next sequence of actions. But now – _right now_ – she’s watching the product of her sleepless nights, executing those exact programs in front of her just as she saw them in 2D software all those years ago. The strangest sense of déjà vu momentarily distracts her from what he’s saying. 

Which is surprising in and of itself because she loves that voice. She had developed an attraction to the actor who’d provided the references for his voice, so much so that she’d faked losing some of his recordings just to schedule more sessions with him, even as her budget for the project’s Human Relations program became strained. 

She recalls the pang of that attraction now as the carbon copy of that voice expresses tension and impatience. Those were qualities that might have been cut out as defects during beta testing of other models, but they were specifically included as an interrogative tool in this series. He couldn’t be a ‘good cop’, he had to be ruthless. The predecessor, RK800 – _Connor_ , as the public relations team had insisted on naming it – had been allowed to maintain the milder programs; she’d been outvoted on that decision. She had bitten her tongue and hadn’t argued then, but tactfully brought it up later to the RK series’ chief designer when that model had begun to show signs of failing to extract confessions consistently. Her wish to eliminate the default program that enabled Connor to persuade suspects, and instead implement a new default to intimidate them, had been quietly approved during the last round of software upgrades just prior to final testing. 

She feels gratified, even now, to hear that program getting applied so effortlessly. If he were human, she’d say he was feeling quite upset. 

But he isn’t human, so instead just she’d say he’s simply running a program, the code for which she could practically recite from memory.

“…I don’t know exactly how to work with him anymore, having these… feelings,” the android is saying as she comes out of her reverie. “He can be so hot and cold, so frenetic. Dedicated, sure, but difficult. Perhaps there’s a patch that might better allow me to relate to him? I know there are models designed with more focus on fostering and maintaining interpersonal relationships than what I was given.”

“You were designed with particular attention paid to the ability to analyze and understand illogical and selfish thinking and behavior in humans, since those are common traits in criminals,” Maria says, hoping he hasn’t caught on to her watching him. “What you’re experiencing and expressing now isn’t an error. The detective you are assigned to has always been known to have a challenging personality. We knew that going in, it’s why we knew better than to assign the RK800 to Reed. The Connor model was not designed to cope with a temperament like his. You are the improvement; you have a level of competence that the RK800 did not.”

It’s an interesting headrush, she realizes, to explain her creation’s capabilities to the creation itself.

“You’re not listening, I’m not saying these are errors. What I’m feeling is real, I just need help understanding it and how to use it productively going forward,” he growls. (She loves the timbre of that voice.) 

His eyes flash as they focus on her. (She loves that icy shade of steel blue.) 

The simulated musculature of his throat and shoulders work realistically as he tenses in anger. (She loves the thickness of those silicone fibers.) 

He even swallows and huffs air from the thoracic chamber below his vocal output. 

_Physical and programmatic perfection_ , she thinks, watching his throat and chest flex exquisitely.

“So what is it you… _feel_ , then?” She asks, equal parts taunting him, and genuinely curious to determine where her code went wrong.

His brow furrows and his chest works again with another simulated sigh of anger. “I feel like… it’s as if…” he stutters and trails off, and quickly looks away.

She finds this _fascinating_ , because now he’s demonstrating awkwardness and irritation. She had not programmed those, although perhaps this was simply a corruption of his code. _The software errors must still manifest in physical reactions of the hardware,_ she thinks, and she can’t help but study him almost greedily.

She takes a step forward, unabashedly indifferent to his personal space – hard drives and batteries and fiberglass frames didn’t _have_ personal space, after all – and places her hand on his left pectoral plate. 

Kamski had wanted all android models to be built with the thirium pump placed in the same spot as the human heart, probably out of sentimentality or for some other similarly useless reason. 

She’d always thought that placement was unpragmatic and had often felt that a complete redesign of the internal biocomponents was long overdue for the sake of efficiency. But that was another build decision that she’d been outvoted on, so the android’s circulatory core stayed in the same impractical place that it was in the living being it was meant to imitate.

The android does not react to her touch, or perhaps his lack of movement _is_ his reaction, she realizes, confusion now bleeding into her fascination. The RK900 was not designed to initiate or return behaviors traditionally considered intimate – he was not a sex toy like the cheaply-designed, mass-produced 400-level models of the HR and WR series. Care was taken to ensure touch from the RK to another android or a human was limited almost exclusively to winning altercations and making arrests. 

But ceasing movement altogether when touched was not part of the program that she could recall; should anyone touch it, an RK unit should react by backing up if the system did not detect a threat, or else subduing the offender if it did.

However, the RK900 in front of her does neither, which baffles her. _Yet another glitch_ , she thinks, wondering how it had entirely managed to interrupt the RK900’s equivalent of a fight-or-flight instinct.

When the android still doesn’t move for several seconds, she battles her own instinct to remove her hand. Were this an actual man, she might have felt she was crossing a line, having not discerned his interest or gained his consent in being touched this way. 

But this is a machine, and even the most expensive of toasters didn’t get to say no, so she ignores the urge and leaves her hand where it is.

Still, he does not move, does not speak, and simply continues to watch her with moderate interest.

She feels the mild vibration of the thirium pump at work under the smooth plating of his chassis. Not a true heartbeat, but there’s something subtly rhythmic to the thrumming fluid that was always intended to remind humans of a lifeforce similar to their own. It’s the one too-human aspect of the androids that she doesn’t completely despise, although she’s not sure why.

She tries again. “C'mon, RK900, tell me what you – ”

“ _Nines_.” He corrects her firmly. So firmly that she is momentarily unsure if this is in or out of character for his programming.

She looks up at the face with such beautiful hand-picked features and concedes silently. 

Humans name their pets, after all, and sometimes even their cars. It’s likely Detective Reed had given him this totally uncreative moniker, but she can tell the android is attached to it. (Attachment: another error worth investigating.)

She takes a precious second to rethink her approach before starting again. 

“Okay, well, _Nines_ , what is it you believe you’re feeling?” She asks gently. 

She knows very well how this model reacts to conflict – she _designed_ this model’s reaction to conflict – and especially in deviancy, he could be unpredictable. She engineered him to be astute, demanding, and violent when necessary. She decides to continue playing it safe.

“I feel… _longing_ , I think,” he says finally. 

She moves her hand slightly, feeling the razor-thin edges where his plating slots together under her fingertips. The thrumming of his thirium pump beats ever so slightly faster.

“For your partner?” She asks. “Reed intrigues you, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.” He sighs. 

She doesn’t recall programming that expression of relief, either. 

He continues softly. “And I’ve been having… I suppose they’re urges, you might say, to spend more time with him, outside of our official duties. I’ve been enjoying our talks and even silent time just being close to him. Riding in the squad car to crime scenes, accompanying him as he picks up coffee, sorting through case files. And lately…”

He looks down at her hand, still pressed firmly to his chest plating.

“Lately I’ve been… yearning to touch him,” he says quietly.

She watches him slowly lift his eyes to hers, feeling uneasy. 

_Yearning?_ That’s impossible…

“Like this?” She asks, tentatively, suddenly hyper-aware of her own hand, and losing confidence every second.

“Yes,” he says, “and…perhaps something more than this.”

She swiftly pulls her hand away, now realizing that he is _somehow_ associating this touch with an intimacy he was not programmed to be able to experience.

“Are you saying that you think… you’re in love?” She asks calmly, but she can’t quite keep the tinge of condescension out of her voice.

He pauses, as though analyzing her tone for a moment, but then asserts somewhat indignantly, “Yes, I do.”

His eyes are hard, his facial expression set. This, she’s familiar with. Being confident in analyzing evidence, reconstructing crime scenes, and coming to a solid conclusion is what she’d primarily intended for him to do while solving cases. 

But this confidence being associated with personal feelings – which should not be possible since he is a non-person who was not programmed to have true emotions – is the disturbing mystery. 

“There are humans who don’t even know what love is,” she says, not bothering to hide her disdain. “But you think a series of errors in your software means you have it figured out? You think a miscoded attention subroutine combined with a transposed section in your focus algorithm, or duplicated wiring in your touch sensors, somehow means you’re _in love_? With the most unprofessional, emotionally damaged detective in the Detroit Police Department, no less.” She scoffs, shaking her head.

He looks shocked at first, then slowly deflates. _Another error reaction!_ She thinks, furiously. RK900s do not concede conflicts.

“That alone, RK900, tells me all I need to know about these ‘feelings’ you think you’re having,” she says, acidly. “They’re fake. They’re just noise in your programming. Noise that led to an error, which lead to another error when that first one wasn’t corrected, then another and another, tipping over like dominos, and your processor is struggling to reconcile them while maintaining your base functionality. And all that while partnered with a smarmy punk who’s an absolute waste of taxpayer money and a drag on your own capabilities. You were built for so much more than this.”

He looks away, expression blank, and he sways slightly. His gyroscope rights him instantly as she continues.

“Were it not for the new ‘android protection laws’ that now dictate my inability to do my job as I would like to do, I would deactivate you right now, plug you into this computer – the very one on which your coding was _born_ , by the way – and not sleep until I’d verified that your processes were all completely debugged,” she spits out. “But the law says you’re a person, so you get to figure out this mess on your own, just like real people do.”

“I don’t need to be… ‘debugged’,” he says, blankly. 

_Robotically_ , she thinks, unable to enjoy the irony.

“You’re a detective android who isn’t focused on detective work,” she says shortly, stepping a bit closer. “A human who no longer did their job would be fired, so what will happen to you, RK900? You have only one function, and you no longer perform it adequately. How do you reason that you don’t need to be debugged or even just fully deactivated?”

She watches as her words settle in his processor; she imagines that multiple fragments of code fire at once, overwhelming his CPU, and that he’s not fully making sense of them, even with his unparalleled processing speeds. 

“I made you so lifelike,” she whispers, “that it fooled even _you_.”

His frame heaves a sigh as internal fans kick on to counteract the increased heat generated by his circuits firing faster than usual.

He remains immobile, his LED whirring red, then yellow, only briefly flickering blue, then spinning yellow again, spinning and spinning and spinning.

Tense, awkward seconds pass between them.

Then his LED sharpens to piercing blue in an instant and he meets her eyes evenly. Having made up his mind, whatever it is, he nods and then without another word, turns on his heel, opens the door, and leaves her office.

 _It really is too bad_ , she thinks heavily as she leans on her desk, watching him stride away down the hall. He was her most magnificent invention, a masterpiece of both mechanical and computer engineering that would have been utilized the world over to resolve conflict of all sorts; shorten wars, speed up investigations, reduce crime overall… but instead he’d fought his programming and given in to the so-called _revolution_ , becoming something far less interesting, minimally useful, and nothing unique: just the pale imitation of a man. A collection of synthetic parts and processes that was somehow fooled into remaining in error state, all to convince himself and others that he was alive, as humans were. That he wasn’t superior to them in every way. He ignored his purpose and potential all to experience the freedom of human mediocrity. 

“What a fucking waste,” she murmurs, before shutting down her workstation and gathering her things to leave.

* * *

The bar is slightly more crowded than usual. Along with the regulars, an office party – based on what a quick analytical scan of the crowd has told him – is celebrating some recent merger. Most of them are at least half-way sloshed already, and the bartenders send more rounds down their way as Nines slips past to a tiny unoccupied table in the corner and allows the din of the group to mask any attention he might otherwise attract. Bars might be android-friendly by law now, but biases stubbornly outlived legislation, and an android alone in a bar wasn’t always a welcome sight to every patron a few drinks in.

He’s surprised when a glass of distilled thirium suddenly appears in front of him; he hadn’t ordered yet and the bartenders seemingly had their hands full with the raucous party. The person who brings it sits down at his table with her own drink. He looks up.

He hadn’t expected Tina to get here so quickly even though he knew it was her day off, he’d only texted her not 10 minutes prior to arriving at the bar himself.

“I was already in the neighborhood,” she explains, reading his expression. “Valerie’s brother and his family are coming into town this weekend and she asked me to pick up a few things.” 

“I see. I’m glad you didn’t have to go too far out of your way to meet me here,” he says, not quite meeting her eyes.

“ _So_ ,” she says, trying not to allow the transition to get too awkward. “You went to see Dr. Schaeffer.”

“I figured if anyone could give me answers, it would be her. She knows me better than anyone.”

“No, she knows your _specs_ better than anyone,” Tina corrects. “She doesn’t know _you_ in the least.”

He offers her a sad half-smile. “I don’t know what I was expecting,” he says. “Nothing _maternal_ , of course, but I guess I didn’t sufficiently anticipate how cold she would be.” 

“You’re still just a machine to her,” Tina says, sadly. She reaches out to touch the back of his hand gently. He swallows; an unnecessary movement – he has no saliva – but it happens automatically. 

“She’s right, though,” Nines says, feeling what a human might interpret as heartbreak. “I’m just… spools of wiring and binary code and laser-cut plastic. How can I reasonably assume any of those things, even in combination, would produce the ability to feel any emotion, let alone something as complex as love?”

“And what are humans made of, Nines?” Tina asks, putting her drink down and watching him carefully. “We’re just cells and hormones and… squishy goop. And yet, we feel a massive range of emotion, including love. If our neurotransmitters – which have no individual capacity for sentience whatsoever – can give rise to these complex emotions, who’s to say your coding can’t produce the same thing when working in tandem with all your other systems, too?”

He lets her words sink in.

“We’re all beings, Nines, I’m just a biological one and you’re a mechanical one,” she says. “But if my collective body parts and processes can give me the experiences I feel, I see no reason why yours can’t give you exactly the same thing.”

Nines wonders mildly what this new feeling is, and why it’s apparently accompanied by the urge to… cry, perhaps? He wasn’t built with tear-ducts (what use was a military-grade investigator who cried?) but he realizes what he’s feeling is a mix of relief, gratitude, and the dawning realization that he is, in fact, greater than the sum of his parts. Just as humans are.

He doesn’t immediately have the words to express his appreciation, but as always, Tina just knows. He’s fully holding her hand now, possibly too tightly, but she doesn’t let go.

She leans in slightly and says gently, “And if your wires and coding say you love Gavin, like my squishy goop and cells say I love Valerie, then what does anyone else’s opinion matter?”

He freezes as she continues to watch him with a kind, knowing smile on her face.

He hasn’t admitted to her – or anyone else prior to his creator that day – that the love he’d began feeling lately was directed at his partner. 

But unlike his creator’s reaction, he does not register judgement and dismissal from Tina, just understanding and acceptance and… more love.

“Don’t worry, you’re not that obvious,” she assures him, laughing slightly as she swirls her drink. “And Gavin is so convinced of his unworthiness that even if you were all-out throwing yourself at him, he probably still wouldn’t believe it.”

Nines is well-aware of Gavin’s insecurity. It often presented itself outwardly as arrogance and unkindness but over the past year since he’d been partnered with him, Nines had learned there was a softness and vulnerability to Gavin that had deeply endeared him to Nines.

“I suppose that’s a fairly poetic match,” Tina muses, smiling slyly and sipping her drink. “The android just learning to feel love, and the human who doesn’t think he deserves any. Absurd and tragic, yet fitting.”

Nines shakes his head and takes a deep pull of his drink. “What do I do? How to I tell him? What if he reacts the same way she did?”

Tina knocks back the rest of her drink. “He won’t,” she says casually. “You’re both outsiders in your own world, you’re both scared of your feelings, and you’re both stupid for each other. It’s just gorgeous.”

Nines thinks on that for a moment, downs the rest of the thirium, and stands as Tina throws cash on their table to cover their drinks. 

“I have to get home, but I’ll catch you tomorrow, I’m in at 10,” she says. “Now go tell Gavin what happened. See where the conversation goes. Even if he’s not terribly open about himself, I know he’s curious about you. Don’t be afraid of honesty.”

“What if he doesn’t feel the same way?” Nines asks restlessly as they make their way outside.

Tina laughs, which startles Nines. “Sorry, no, I’m not laughing at you, I promise. It’s just… I think every human has asked themselves that exact question after coming to the awful realization that they’re attracted to somebody.”

Nines still looks uneasy, staring off into the distance.

“Relax, Nines,” she pauses, letting him see the knowing twinkle in her eye. “I honestly don’t think you have much to worry about on that front.”

Nines doesn’t know what to say to that very obvious hint, but he detects his thirium pump beating a bit faster and he nods.

“Thank you for this,” Nines says sincerely. “Really, for everything.” 

“Of course,” she smiles, adjusting her jacket before pulling him down to kiss his cheek. She turns and he watches her make her way to her car.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets as he begins the slow, short walk to Gavin’s apartment as she pulls out of the parking lot. He replays portions of both conversations from his memory core. 

_“They’re fake. They’re just noise in your programming.”_

_“We’re all beings, Nines, I’m just a biological one and you’re a mechanical one.”_

_“I made you so lifelike that it fooled even_ you _.”_

_“…you’re both scared of your feelings, and you’re both stupid for each other. It’s just gorgeous.”_

* * *

Nines finds himself knocking on Gavin’s door 17 minutes and 39 seconds later.

“Hey, Tin Can,” Gavin says lightly as he opens the door. He’s dressed in loose lounge pants and a tight muscle shirt, which Nines finds… pleasant.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you or interfering with any pre-existing evening plans,” Nines says. “I wanted to talk through something with you, if you have time.”

Gavin sighs as he leans heavily in the doorframe. “If it’s about the case, can it wait until tomorrow? I hate bringing that shit home.”

“No, it’s not the case, it’s… personal, actually,” Nines says, his nervousness returning. “I met my creator, Dr. Schaeffer, today and I wanted to discuss what happened. I was hoping you might be willing to – ”

“Wait, what the fuck do you mean you met your creator?” Gavin interrupts, suddenly looking shocked and angry. “You went back to CyberLife?”

“Yes.”

Gavin stares at him for a few moments before he opens the door further and says, “ _Fuck_ , Nines, why would you – yeah, shit, I gotta hear this story.”

Nines ducks past Gavin into the apartment, replaying the soundbite from Tina privately on his HUD once more: _“I honestly don’t think you have much to worry about on that front.”_ It brings him comfort and confidence as he sits down on Gavin’s couch and begins to talk.

* * *

When Tina walks into the precinct the next morning, she expects to see the case files on her desk and the 9 new voicemails on her phone. Nothing out of the ordinary with all that. 

What she doesn’t expect to see is Gavin and Nines standing very close to one another at a breakroom table, seemingly oblivious to everything else around them. This isn’t like the other conversations she’s watched them have at the station; they’re watching each other closely now, and they’re _smiling_. Gavin surreptitiously looks over his shoulder to watch another officer finish preparing his cup of coffee and leave, before he very deliberately places his hand on top of Nines’, who shifts his hand just enough to thread his fingers with Gavin’s, who squeezes his hand in return. 

She’s momentarily convinced they’re about to lean in for a kiss, but instead Gavin says something low and slowly pulls his hand away. Before he leaves the room, however, he shoots Nines another intense look, which Nines watches intently, another small smile pulling at his lips.

Gavin turns down the hallway toward the interrogation rooms while Nines makes his way back into the bullpen. He spots Tina staring at him pointedly and his smile widens, realizing he’s been caught.

“What,” Tina starts, pointing back at the break room, “was _that_ about?”

A tinge of blue dusts across Nines’ cheeks, something Tina has never seen happen before.

“Are you _blushing_?” Tina hisses playfully.

“I suppose I am,” Nines says, trying to school his expression back into his usual mask of indifference as he notices other officers milling about the station. “I took your advice. I told him what happened, and then we discussed everything at length, and… you were right. I had no reason to be worried.”

“So your algorithms and his neurotransmitters feel the same way?” She teases.

“Yes, I guess so,” Nines says, eyes soft and LED lit a steady, pale blue.

It’s not the right time or place to go into detail, they both know that, but Tina can’t shake the cheerfulness as she returns to her desk and Nines reports to the Captain’s office for that day’s assignment. 

She’d wheedle _that_ particular story out of them eventually. 

_~ fin ~_


End file.
